under the wraps

A Quiet Heresy

"The clever conceal themselves;
the wise reveal themselves slowly."
— Baltasar Gracián

"This one?" I asked. "Are you saying you're the owner?"

"Yeah."
He smiled. The curve of his lips made his eyes narrow, darkening them with something inexplicable.

"But the receptionist—"

"She probably informed you about my father," he said smoothly—either explaining the truth or masking it.
"He's the real owner. I handle this branch."

The pause before finishing the sentence felt deliberate.

Maybe he was the one I was looking for. I studied him again. Something about him felt... off. Not obvious—subtle. Controlled.

"I knew you were looking for me," he said. "The moment I saw you."

The words hit like a quiet shock, as if he had reached into my thoughts.

"You knew what?" I asked, refusing to react.

"You don't look like someone who loves art," he said, a brief grin flickering and disappearing.
"You look more like a—"

"Like what?" I asked, my expression hardening.

"Someone from the FBI... RAW... or the police."
He put weight on police, as if testing the word against my face.

He was definitely not ordinary.

"Do you, by any chance, know—"

"Mansvani," he interrupted. "Yes. She's my employee. And a friend."

God. This man didn't allow sentences to breathe. It was getting under my skin.

"How do you know I'm here for—"

"She's the only person connected to me whose husband died under anonymous circumstances," he said calmly.
"If the police come looking for the owner, it's usually about her."

A slight tilt of his head.
"Am I right—or am I right?"

"How do you know I'm from the police?" I pressed, stepping closer.
"I could be anyone wanting to meet the owner. Rahul's death was never public—only internal staff knew. How do you know confidential information?"

For the first time, he leaned back.

"I didn't," he said. "It was speculation. But you didn't deny it."
A pause.
"As I said—Mansvani informed me."

His calm never cracked.

"And I happen to be in a position," he added lightly, "where accessing confidential information isn't difficult."

The only person who had ever irritated me like this before was Rudra. Sushant was quickly earning second place.

"You have an answer for everything," I said. "You seem prepared."

"I just don't fear using my sense of humor."

Mohit returned then, glancing at me, silently asking for an introduction. Sushant looked at both of us with a polite smile. I was sure of one thing—he was gaslighting the entire conversation. But with me, it wouldn't be easy.

"If there's anything I can help you with," he said, "we can discuss it in my office."

Then, almost as an afterthought—

"I'm Sushant. Owner of New Morning Art Gallery."

The rest of the conversation went exactly as expected—circling without landing anywhere. Every sentence carried two meanings. He answered without revealing, cooperative enough to appear harmless, clever enough to give nothing away. Without a warrant, I was powerless.

His eyes, however, told me everything his words didn't:

I know what you're here for. And I'm never giving it to you.

After every answer, he smiled—soft, almost innocent—pride gleaming behind it, as if amused by how easily he had controlled the room. I went searching for answers and came back with nothing but heavier questions.

After discussing everything with the team, we decided to hire a spy to keep an eye on him. Until Rahul's wife returned, Sushant remained our only suspect.

Then—without warning—

A letter appeared outside my house.

"I can survive only one week without food."

Written in blood.

Food—meaning victims.

Five days had already passed. I had only two left.

Every possible criminal was detained under emergency warrants. Even minor offenders were interrogated. The entire force worked relentlessly.

Nothing.

Until one day, when Mansi called.

She said she had found something.

A living proof.

That Sushant was the killer.